<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>First Date: Veronica's by therapychicken</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26681359">First Date: Veronica's</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/therapychicken/pseuds/therapychicken'>therapychicken</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Chatting Up And What Comes After [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Schitt's Creek</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Baby Gay Patrick, CW: discussion of drugs, David is STILL self-sabotaging, In which Patrick stumbles into David a few years early, M/M, POV David, Patrick is STILL a baby gay, all mentions of drugs tapas and timbits are based solely on internet research, can't say this enough</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 03:08:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,087</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26681359</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/therapychicken/pseuds/therapychicken</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>David has agreed to go out on a date, a real actual date, with a man who won't even tell him his name. A man who, in a ten minute phone conversation, actually made him feel like he deserved all this</p><p>There is absolutely no way this can end well.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Patrick Brewer/David Rose</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Chatting Up And What Comes After [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1560142</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>154</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>First Date: Veronica's</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>...and part 3 came definitely less than a year after part 2! I was just really in the zone, not to mention thrilled by all the encouragement, so here we go. </p><p>If you haven't read from the beginning, you absolutely should and things will make way more sense, but the CliffNotes version is that Patrick met David a few years pre-canon, and while Patrick is probably a bit less messed up than he is later on, David is still really dealing with his own demons. And now they're going on a date. </p><p>I hope you enjoy- remember to let me know what you think in the comments, and wear a mask and save lives!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Usually at 7:30 PM David was rolling into bed with a bottle of wine and a couple Xanax, completely done for the day, or he was rolling out of bed, texting around to figure out his evening options. This particular Saturday at 7:30 PM, David was staring into the mirror, staring at his outfit choice. Usually, he dressed how he wanted- if people liked what they saw, great, and they generally did; otherwise, screw ‘em. Now, David was actually trying to see if his outfit would </span>
  <em>
    <span>impress</span>
  </em>
  <span> somebody, and it was an odd feeling, the kind he hadn’t had since middle school. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Considering the kind of clothing this </span>
  <em>
    <span>somebody </span>
  </em>
  <span>would probably be wearing, David probably shouldn’t bother trying to impress; for some reason, that’s not really holding him back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>David hadn’t taken anything all day, too nervous that he’d end up out of his mind and ruin the whole- whatever this was. With no work to distract him, here in Toronto on a weekend, he’d woken at noon and eaten Frosted Flakes out of the box while rewatching Orange Is The New Black. It had been just enough to shut down his feelings of </span>
  <em>
    <span>what the fuck am I doing</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>why did I say yes to this fucking date </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>why am I so nervous</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Right around 5:30, realizing that he had to start getting his act together, he compromised and took half a Xanax before getting in the shower. It helped, sort of. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After deciding that the black and white herringbone short sleeve button-down really did work with the black skinny jeans, and that together they made a perfectly acceptable date outfit (if a little bland, though honestly “bland” was probably a good idea tonight), he stared at the mirror with a long sigh, opened up one more button of his shirt, and grabbed his wallet and phone as he made his way downstairs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe it was the fact that he was standing in the lobby, waiting for the doorman to hail his cab, that made him suddenly realize that fuck, he was </span>
  <em>
    <span>doing this</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and every single one of those thoughts that he’d mostly successfully kept at bay the whole day, since their initial deluge late last night as he’d tried to fall asleep, suddenly crashed through his brain. When the doorman motioned him that his cab was ready, every step David took toward the door seemed to echo. As he collapsed into the taxi, he closed his eyes, cringing from the deluge. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You shouldn’t have said yes. You were just all flattered by the “gorgeous” and the “funny” and how much he liked the leather jacket, but probably mostly by the “kind,” because what the actual fuck. This is a date. Maybe he’ll want to date you, and buy you, like, flowers, and fucking marry you like you’re a real live normal person. He’s a real live normal person, and you’ve done molly with three different Teen Choice Award winners, and you shouldn’t have said yes. He’s an actual human being; he deserves better than you, and he’s going to realize that- and if he doesn’t realize that then it’ll end up even worse.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>David spent the rest of the car ride imagining what this normal human being’s normal human life was like: a condo in a development somewhere, maybe near a park where he jogs in the morning, a car that he drives to get to work, where he settles down in a cubicle and never puts fish in the microwave and plays pranks on Dwight or whatever it is people do in offices. He comes home and cracks open a beer and watches a sportsball game, or goes over to his warm loving parents to have pot roast for dinner. Maybe he has a few siblings with cute kids who he plays with. Maybe </span>
  <em>
    <span>he </span>
  </em>
  <span>has kids of his own; he said yesterday that he didn’t have a girlfriend, and even if he wasn’t lying about that, that didn’t mean he didn’t have a wife. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he did have kids, David would have to shut this straight the fuck down. Nobody should allow impressionable children within five hundred yards of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>David was in the middle of imagining himself accidentally dropping a baby when he heard the cab driver coughing; the cab was stopped outside Veronica’s. Even David, very used to his anxiety spirals, had no idea how he’d gotten all the way to baby-dropping, and he abashedly paid the cabbie and stretched himself out as he unfolded himself out of the car. The night air made him feel a tiny bit better- not enough, but a bit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As David walked to the restaurant door, he waved hi at the host before reaching into his wallet for his credit card, to pay his all-you-can-eat charge. The host- a scrawny kid who David recognized from his past pig-outs here- held up his hand. “Nah, you’re all good, your date already paid for you. Table four.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>David stopped, his hand frozen on his wallet. “My… what? How do you know?” How did this pimply child know that he was on a date right now, let alone who it was with? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, he described you. Very vividly. And I was pretty sure it was you, but then when I saw you coming it was obvious. Anyway, like I said, table four, he’s been waiting fifteen minutes.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before David could ask exactly how his date had described him, or what name he had given when paying, the host turned to the next people in line, and David walked as if on autopilot into the restaurant, where he could see the man of the hour himself waving and grinning from a table right next to the buffet. He was wearing a patterned green button down with the top two buttons open, a bit too tight (not that David was complaining) and with sleeves of a weird length, not quite long or short; it had a very “fresh out of the package” look, with creases from having been folded. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As David took him in, he could basically remember why he’d agreed to go on this date- or not so much remember but viscerally feel the endorphins that had gushed up in his brain at the sight of those warm brown eyes the last time he’d seen them. His heart was still pounding, but it was pounding from adrenaline, not dread. It was kind of intoxicating, and David did his best to keep the back part of his brain that was reminding him what a bad idea this was firmly at the back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>David approached the table and could feel his smile growing to match… and he’d been trying not to call him anything, because his well of creative names had kind of run dry with all the anxiety. But now that David was staring him in the face, everything felt kind of right, and he said, smirking, “Hey, Percy, sorry if I kept you waiting.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seeing the grin expand on… what’s-his-name’s face made David feel like everything about this was already worth it. “A good effort, but no,” he was told. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So… you can just tell me? Or are you afraid the romance will die with the mystery?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>David had just meant to make a joke, but the faint flush growing on his date’s cheeks and the slight shrinking of his smile suddenly made David think that he’d accidentally hit a bit too close to the mark.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shrugged as he sat down and said, “well, suit yourself then, Preston.” He took a delicate sip of his glass of water and was relieved when he glanced over the rim to see his date </span>
  <em>
    <span>laugh</span>
  </em>
  <span>, full and loud, and even if part of it was probably from exploded nerves David had still managed to do that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>David let his eyes run over the man across the table (Paul?) from behind the cover of his water glass. Some of the things from yesterday that had stuck out were still absolutely present: the excellent forearms, the sweet soft face, those eyes, that mouth, those shoulders. But while the man from yesterday had looked like the kind of person who’d taken a break from a familiar, straight life to duck into a gay bar on a whim, to see what it was like, this man in front of him now looked like someone who had taken the last 24 hours to figure out what a man on a date with a man was supposed to look like. There was the shirt, for sure, which David would bet money had been bought sometime that afternoon, and there was the product in the man’s (Patrick’s?)  hair, a little bit too much, a patch sticky and glistening in front of his ear. David remembered those protestations the night before, about how David could get any man he wanted, and just felt bad about how this man across from him (Paxton?) had wasted all this care and anxiety on him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, Phoenix, you look nice,” he said with another smirk, the kind that makes the other person feel sexy. “Very, very nice.” And it was true- the tightness and sleeve length of the shirt, however objectionable in and of themselves, did only nice things to Perry (?), and David would be lying if he said that the curls accentuated by Philip’s (?) overused product weren’t doing things to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter (?) grinned, half-shyly, flushing. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ve kind of… had this shirt at the bottom of my dresser drawer for a while- figured it was the time to dig it out.” There was a funny look in Pierce’s (?) eyes, a steady one like he was trying to say something without saying it; luckily, it was a language that David was more than fluent in. He could teach college-level classes. Now that he thought about it, as annoying as it was to be wrong about the shirt being new, this made a bit more sense, and was kind of nice- Parker (?) wasn’t on a 24 hour tear of experimentation, this was something he’d thought about before. He wasn’t just going to go back to whatever closet he came from and leave-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that that mattered to David anyway, it’s not like this would be going anywhere. He shook his head minutely to clear it and put back on his flirtiest expression- it was surprisingly natural. “We-ell,” he drawled, “your shirt does cause me a few problems.” He made a show of looking it up and down, enjoying the little peeks of chest he could see through the straining buttons. He wondered what kind of pants a guy wore for his first gay date- probably skinny jeans, he bet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His face still a bit flushed but his expression surprisingly cocky, Peyton (?) met David’s eyes as he asked, “how so?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s green,” David said bluntly, and preened a bit as… damn, he was running out of names starting with P- Patrice? ugh- but anyway, he snorted with laughter. “And I have you saved in my phone, by your suggestion, as Sonic the Hedgehog, who is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>green. And I do not have enough information to know whether Jolly Green Giant is appropriate in this case- at least, not yet.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He winked, and …Pharrell (?- this was scraping the bottom of the barrel) went bright red as he veritably </span>
  <em>
    <span>giggled</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and it’s possible that this was the best David had felt in ages. Usually these kind of jokes were like passcodes, ways to get to the next part of the hookup ritual; here he was actually making somebody actually laugh. It was the kind of thing that made him start to understand why people did such obviously insane things as do improv. He patted himself on the back for having gone with a color-themed name on the phone call, not one of the ones about the bland boring business clothes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Patrick,” said Patrick, from across the table, still blushing but looking him directly in the eye as he extended one of those beautiful arms across the table to shake hands. “Patrick Brewer, very nice to meet you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Patrick</span>
  </em>
  <span>- I guessed that one in my head like ten names ago! And you already know my name.” David took the hand and shook it solemnly, trying not to project the part of his brain that said </span>
  <em>
    <span>Sebastien said your name and this man is on a date with you, either he just wants a hookup or sugar daddy or- </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do, David. Though I don’t think I remember your last name, and I don’t want to be at a disadvantage.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh shit. He doesn’t know.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And like a sign from heaven, David’s stomach grumbled exactly then and, thought after catastrophizing through flooding through his mind, he jumped up and said, “tapas!” And Patrick laughed and they got up together to make their way to the buffet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>**</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two hours into the date, over about a dozen small plates of Spanish finger food, David was able to confidently say that </span>
</p>
<ol>
<li>
<span>he had literally nothing in common with Patrick- he’d basically expected that from the second they’d first locked eyes at the club</span><span><br/>
<br/>
</span>
</li>
<li><span>he had never had more fun talking to someone about all of the things that they didn’t have in common, and wow, THAT was a surprise. </span></li>
</ol><p>
  <span>“No, I’m sorry,” David said, genuinely affronted. “Sleepless in Seattle is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>a stalker movie. It is </span>
  <em>
    <span>romantic</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Meg Ryan isn’t happy and she goes and finds herself and falls in love.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Patrick looked at him evenly from over a bacon-wrapped date. “I’m just calling it how I see it,” he said innocently. “Now, in You’ve Got Mail, it’s the Tom Hanks character who’s the creep-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Stop talking now.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Patrick’s face finally broke and he collapsed laughing. David tried </span>
  <em>
    <span>very very very </span>
  </em>
  <span>hard to school his face into something stern and forbidding- and he was actually kind of irritated at this blatant disrespect for some of his favorite movies- but he just couldn’t do it. It was like the smile was irrepressibly breaking out of him. So annoying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So which is your favorite kind of sportsball? I feel like it’s my turn to ruthlessly tear something you love to pieces.” David licked at his index finger to get at a stray streak of sauce from his chorizo, and did not miss it as Patrick’s laughter slowed and his eyes widened as he looked at David’s mouth on his hand; he added a bit of subtle theatrics as he sucked delicately at the tip of his finger and saw Patrick’s pupils dilate a bit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Upon realizing that David had stopped talking, Patrick shook his head like a dog shaking off water and blinked for a few seconds (all of which was adorable, for the record) before grinning. “Well, you’re out of luck there, David. Unfortunately, there is absolutely nothing funny or mockable about curling.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes twinkled as David nearly choked on his albondigas. “Curling. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Curling. </span>
  </em>
  <span>How the fuck am I sitting across the table from a man whose favorite sport is </span>
  <em>
    <span>curling.</span>
  </em>
  <span> I bet you also dip Timbits in maple syrup and have O Canada as your ringtone.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So I </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>dip Timbits in maple syrup but actually that sounds really good,” Patrick mused. “It would definitely rescue the Old Fashioned Plain.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ugh! I can’t believe this,” David groaned as he snagged some of Patrick’s fried squid with his fork. Actually, now that he thought about it, Old Fashioned Plain Timbits probably </span>
  <em>
    <span>would </span>
  </em>
  <span>actually taste pretty good dipped in maple syrup. This was something to potentially explore. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>How was there not already a maple flavored Timbit? Damn, this was going to bug him now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was not, though, going to bug him to the extent that he’d miss Patrick’s next comment, about how “shame it’s not the right season or maybe next time I’d take you to a bonspiel, you’d see that there is absolutely </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing </span>
  </em>
  <span>to laugh about when it comes to curling.” And suddenly it all came crashing down. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Next time</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Patrick thought there was going to be a next time, for some fucking reason. That this was a first date that led to a second date that led to a relationship. Now David was going to have to tell him that it wasn’t that kind of first date, and what was worse he was going to have to tell himself that too because somehow he’d suckered himself into thinking that he was the kind of person who got to have this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>(No, not </span>
  <em>
    <span>got to have</span>
  </em>
  <span>- more like </span>
  <em>
    <span>wanted</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>something like this. That was it. If he didn’t want it, if he remembered that he liked living in New York and being able to snort coke through $100 bills with D list celebrities at 3 AM on a Saturday if he wanted, then it wouldn’t hurt as much when all of that became his only option.) </span>
</p><p>
  <span>David had obviously turned the charm on way too high, to get Patrick to this point where he thought there was going to be a next time. He had his rituals all planned out- the compliments, the jokes, the winks, the lascivious finger-sucking. He was </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>good at them. He could get anyone into bed once- even if they rarely stayed after. But he’d never before gotten someone to want to go on a second date, and he couldn’t help but run through his actions of the evening and realize with a shock that however detailed his playbook may have been, he’d never before really done them on instinct. Not as part of a seduction plan, but because that was what felt right in the moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>By now, David had apparently been quiet for long enough that Patrick was looking at him confusedly. “David? Is something wrong?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Okay, it was time to fade to black on this thing. “Oh, nothing,” David said as airily as he could. So Patrick wasn’t the kind of guy who wanted an exploratory hookup, he was the kind of guy who wanted an exploratory date that ended in a romantic first kiss, and that was </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine</span>
  </em>
  <span>. David had kissed loads of people without getting attached- or rather, without getting </span>
  <em>
    <span>too </span>
  </em>
  <span>attached. This would be fine, just fine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Time for Operation Shutdown. “Mmmm, I’m absolutely stuffed,” he said theatrically, stretching out, even though he could totally have gone for another plate or two of that chorizo. Patrick’s eyes still seemed a bit wary, but the rest of his face seemed to laugh, uncomplicated, charmed. “Let’s get out of here.” He winked, and Patrick flushed. The sooner they left, the sooner they kissed, the sooner Patrick was gone and David could go back to real life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His head was hurting; he started to wish he’d taken the other half of the Xanax along. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Patrick nodded, smiling, but his eyes still had that weird look… concerned, almost. People weren’t usually </span>
  <em>
    <span>concerned </span>
  </em>
  <span>about him, this was just strange. This could be a problem. He got up from his seat, tucking a twenty dollar bill under his plate as a tip (it was buffet service, why was he leaving a tip?!), and motioned to David. “Ready if you are.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wasn’t ready, but he’d have to be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As they left the restaurant, David looked around the street for the right place. Patrick didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would want his first kiss with a man to be PDA, right in front of everyone; there had to be some kind of alley somewhere, a side alcove, where they could make out a bit without risking public indecency before David walked off with an enigmatic wave to take a taxi back to the kind of life he actually deserved. As he ran his gaze across the street, he heard Patrick ask, “did you drive here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without thinking, he answered, “no, I took a cab,” before his mind realized what he had just said and went </span>
  <em>
    <span>shit shit shit.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Because, just as he would have predicted if he’d had even a quarter of the game that he prided himself in having, Patrick immediately responded, “well, I have my car parked down the block, I can drive you home if you want.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No- no, there’s no need, it’s probably out of your way-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>David’s fumbling was met with a devastating smile from Patrick, as he said, “I doubt it, but it’s fine anyway, we can get a few more minutes to talk.” Which, fuck. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They walked down the block and Patrick unlocked the door of a few-year old gray sedan. It was worn but spotlessly clean on the inside- no McDonald’s napkins fallen on the floor or Timmys cups in the cup holders. David could feel his heart sink. He could imagine kissing Patrick in this car. It was the easiest thing to imagine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As they pulled out, David started giving directions toward his place, and Patrick seemed to just drive- but David could sense the glances that were being sent this way. After telling Patrick that they’d be on this road for another couple of minutes, he shrank back into his seat, and had already been dreading it for a long minute when he heard Patrick say, “is everything okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In his perkiest voice, he replied, “yes, of course, everything is fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Only…” Patrick sounded odd, and suddenly David felt like the worst kind of person because this was the kind of voice that he’d had last night when he’d thought that David felt like he was too good for Patrick, when he’d said that David “could have anyone he wanted,” and that was </span>
  <em>
    <span>so </span>
  </em>
  <span>not the point here. David had wanted to leave Patrick with a sweet, romantic kiss, not with </span>
  <em>
    <span>this.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Before Patrick could say anything more, David said, “stop! Pull over!” and like a shot Patrick did, in front of a hydrant, and he put on his hazard lights just like the unreasonably </span>
  <em>
    <span>good </span>
  </em>
  <span>person that he was. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Patrick had just looked at him, concerned, and opened his mouth- probably to ask if David was going to puke or something- when David just reached over and kissed him. Grabbed both sides of Patrick’s face, touching his reddening ears, and pressed feverishly against his mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And goddamn. It wasn’t the kind of soft, romantic kiss that Patrick deserved for his first time, but it felt so good, as he kissed him and Patrick kissed back desperately after a second of calibrating himself to this new situation, and David licked his tongue across Patrick’s mouth and Patrick eagerly opened up for him and let his own tongue lick into David’s, and Patrick’s hands were gripping David’s arms as David’s hands were linked behind Patrick’s neck…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They stopped, after a while, David couldn’t honestly say how long because his brain felt like it was full of cotton wool. It was </span>
  <em>
    <span>easily </span>
  </em>
  <span>the best kiss of David’s life, and it was just so so unfair. He could hear Patrick panting next to him as they both settled down, and the silence was almost uncomfortable until he heard Patrick say, quietly but triumphantly, “see, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew </span>
  </em>
  <span>that that date went well!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>David looked sideways at Patrick and saw the smug smile across those newly kissed lips and just lost it- laughed and laughed and laughed. Patrick continued, “I kept thinking that it was going well- I usually </span>
  <em>
    <span>know </span>
  </em>
  <span>when it’s going well- and then you seemed kind of- but I knew it, I knew I wasn’t going crazy, I’d thought I wasn’t getting a second date.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that made David’s laughter stop cold. Because… he wasn’t going to be getting a second date. David didn’t know if he could survive a second date. He definitely couldn’t survive Patrick’s realization, soon, of what a second date and a third date with David would inevitably mean, his realization of how different they were and their lives were and how he never should have hung around waiting for David to come back from the bathroom back at the bar at all, should have just taken the nice thing he was offered and gone back to his normal life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Patrick’s smirk faded as he saw David’s expression. “I… am I not getting a second date? If I’m not being clear, I’d </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>like a second date.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>David felt his smile go back into autopilot. “Well, there’s always my friend’s gallery opening tomorrow. His dealer always has the good coke, and one of the performance artists is this woman, Janet Kempfluugen, she breastfeeds audience members while dressed as a fawn. I keep trying to get her for my gallery. In New York.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, that should do it. When he glanced over at Patrick, his expression was frozen. He was probably still stuck on the coke, poor baby. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My name is David Rose,” he said helpfully. “My parents are Johnny and Moira Rose. My dad owns Rose Video, my mom is a washed out soap opera star, I haven’t been 100% sure of what country my sister is in if she wasn't actually standing in front of me since she was fourteen years old. I live in a different country and haven’t woken up before 10 AM since high school and don’t remember the last day that went by without me taking some kind of pharmaceutical in a way that it was absolutely not prescribed for. So what would you like us to do on our second date- ice cream?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knew he was being biting now, and it wasn’t fair, Patrick hadn’t signed up for this, but that was the point- Patrick shouldn’t have to get stuck in this, stuck with him, without knowing fully what he was getting himself into- no, at all, Patrick shouldn't get stuck with him at all . Now it was all out there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His jaw set, Patrick turned off his hazards, turned the car back on, and pulled out onto the street. As he drove, David could see his knuckles turn white, and shit, this wasn’t what he’d wanted either. Why couldn’t this night go the way he’d meant it? This was a disaster. He never should have agreed to this; it never could have gone right. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He whispered, “here, on the left,” as Patrick approached his building, and they were turning in to the circular drive. Patrick glanced out David’s window at the lobby. “Wow, nice place,” he said quietly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yep.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have you ever ODed?” And, um, wow, that was a nonsequitur.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“WHAT- It’s not like- it’s- it’s not like that. Not that it’s any of your business or anything. But no, I don’t do that. It’s just- it helps. With stuff.” He could feel himself getting defensive, and he glared over at Patrick, who just looked back impassively. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So I think I’ll turn down your invitation to that gallery opening,” Patrick said casually. And David should have been pleased that his shutdown had worked so well, but suddenly it was like there was a heavy weight in his chest, like this wasn’t what he had wanted at all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then Patrick continued, “I </span>
  <em>
    <span>would</span>
  </em>
  <span>, though, like to know if there’s any time before you go back to New York when you might be interested in going out with me for ice cream.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>David’s head swiveled to look at Patrick, whose face was still impassive, but with a twitch around his mouth, and a look in his eyes that seemed to be shouting something. For the first time, it felt like David had no idea what Patrick’s eyes were shouting, and it was a weird feeling. “I- I don’t-” he stammered pathetically. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean, look, the news that you do drugs does not fill me with happiness,” Patrick said, pretty reasonably, “but it sounds like you’re mostly safe, and I think that the fact that we made it two hours of really good conversation without </span>
  <em>
    <span>any </span>
  </em>
  <span>of that being an issue means that we probably could have a few more? I just- I just really like you, and I want to get ice cream with you and see what happens.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So did David, so bad, but he didn’t know if he could, he didn’t know if he could take it. When Patrick had seemed eager, he could buy into the eagerness, match it, mirror all those excited emotions, fool himself into thinking this could be something real. If even Patrick wasn’t sure- if he was seeing real proof that he could scare Patrick away-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” he said slowly, miserably, and Patrick nodded. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I totally understand. You have my number- let me know, I’m usually around.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he unlocked the car door for David, and as David robotically reached out to open the car door- Patrick leaned over and kissed him. Gently, on the lips. The kind of first kiss that David ought to have given Patrick. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let me know,” he said, as David got up out of the car, and David nodded without turning around as he walked toward the door of his apartment building. He heard the car pull away behind him and, seemingly automatically, pressed his fingers to his lips. Fifteen minutes later, still clothed and two pills already swallowed, he found himself drifting off to sleep, his hand still touching his mouth delicately, as though his fingertips could be burned. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>**</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next night, watching Janet Kempfluugen don her mask and eager members of the audience lining up to “participate in the artwork,” he felt a weird sense of nausea. He walked to the bar to refill his whiskey and saw some white powdery residue on the side of the bottle. Suddenly the nausea grew greater, and he dropped his glass on the bar and nearly ran (if he’d been the kind of person who ran) outside, to the sidewalk, for fresh air. He looked around outside, at the people walking around, the normal people doing their normal things, holding shopping bags and coffees and talking on their cell phones or to each other, and he touched his finger to his mouth, picked up his own phone, and scrolled down to the contact that still said “Sonic the Hedgehog.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before he could change his mind, he selected the contact and typed in, </span>
  <em>
    <span>are you around tomorrow for ice cream</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Staring at the message once it was sent, still sick to his stomach, he edited the contact to “Patrick Brewer,” pocketed his phone, took a deep breath of the fresh cold night air, and ducked his way back into the gallery. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>